“Well, I never had nought of a head-piece,” returned Isel. “I’ve heard my mother tell that I had twenty wallopings ere she could make me say the Paternoster; and I never could learn nought else save the Joy and the Aggerum.”
“What do you mean by the ‘Aggerum,’ Mother?” inquired Haimet.
“Well, isn’t that what you call it? Aggerum or Adjerum, or some such outlandish name. It’s them little words that prayers begin with.”
“‘Deus, in adjutorium,’” said Gerhardt quietly.
Haimet seemed exceedingly amused. He had attended the schools long enough to learn Latin sufficient to interpret the common prayers and Psalms which formed the private devotions of most educated people. This was because his mother had wished him to be a priest. But having now, in his own estimation, arrived at years of discretion, he declined the calling chosen for him, preferring as he said to go into business, and he had accordingly been bound apprentice to a moneter, or money-changer. Poor Isel had mourned bitterly over this desertion. To her mind, as to that of most people in her day, the priesthood was the highest calling that could be attained by any middle-class man, while trade was a very mean and despicable occupation, far below domestic service. She recognised, however, that Haimet was an exception to most rules, and was likely to take his own way despite of her.
Isel’s own lack of education was almost as unusual as Haimet’s possession of it. At that time all learning was in the hands of the clergy, the monastic orders, and the women. By the Joy, she meant the Doxology, the English version of which substituted “joy” for “glory;” while the Adjutorium denoted the two responses which follow the Lord’s Prayer in the morning service, “O God, make speed to save us,” “O Lord, make haste to help us.”
“Can’t you say adjutorium, Mother?” asked the irreverent youth.
“No, lad, I don’t think I can. I’ll leave that for thee. One’s as good as t’other, for aught I see.”
Haimet exploded a second time.
“Good evening!” said Romund’s voice, and a cloaked figure, on whose shoulders drops of rain lay glittering, came in at the door. “I thought you were not gone up yet, for I saw the light under the door. Derette, I have news for you. I have just heard that Saint John’s anchoritess died yesterday, and I think, if you would wish it, that I could get the anchorhold for you. You may choose between that and Godstowe.”